The Devil on Her Tongue

by Linda Holeman

“Don’t pretend you care about my well-being now,” he said, and then went into the house and shut the door.

  As soon as we started up the tortuous trail, Espirito hoisted Cristiano onto his back, still managing to carry my shawl and his own bag. I glanced behind me just once as we left, suddenly superstitious of the valley winds whispering of my return.

  When the sun was high overhead, we came through the most dangerous paths. Stopping at a small cluster of huts I remembered passing on my way into the valley with Bonifacio, we shared the bread and cheese and olives and the skin of water. Then Espirito went into a low stable and led out a tall red-brown horse with a golden mane and tail. “This is Adão,” he said, rubbing the horse’s neck.

  I stroked Adão’s soft nose. “There are no horses on Porto Santo.”

  Cristiano cautiously reached up, smiling as the horse lowered its head for his touch.

  Espirito tied our bags behind the saddle. “Funchal’s streets are too steep and cobbled for horses. I keep Adão in the Kipling stables. Put your left foot into the stirrup,” he instructed, gesturing at the iron ring hanging at the horse’s side. As I did so, he put his hands around my waist, and I swung my other leg over and sat on the long leather seat, adjusting my skirt. Espirito lifted Cristiano up and positioned him in front of me. Then he mounted behind me.

  I was too aware of him. I sat stiffly, the heat of his chest against my back, slightly anxious at being so high above the ground. I concentrated on Cristiano, putting my arms around him as he gripped Adão’s mane. Espirito reached around me to take the reins. As Adão started with a jolting step, I involuntarily made a small cry, and then, embarrassed, laughed. “I like it,” I said, and caught Espirito’s smile from the corner of my eye.

  He kept the horse at a steady walk along the narrow roads, and within a short time I understood the sway and gait, and settled into the creaking leather saddle more comfortably. After a time I let myself lean against Espirito. His chest was muscled and warm. If I turned my head to the side, I could feel his breath on my cheek. Cristiano also lost his fear, putting his hands on the reins and sometimes lightly kicking his bare heels against Adão’s neck.

  As we descended out of the mountains, we again passed the terraces of bananas and sugar cane. The lower we went, the more the crops changed. I hadn’t seen so many different plantings when Bonifacio and I had walked this way over six months earlier, but now it was spring, and from my higher vantage point I kept looking to one side or another and asking Espirito what we were seeing. He pointed out fig as well as orange and lemon trees, and maize and wheat.

  And then, as we came up to a slight rise, I saw it—the sea. It shone silver, like a flat plate in the high afternoon sun. I closed my eyes then opened them, closed them and opened them, over and over, experiencing the joy of seeing the ocean again, knowing it was real.

  Funchal spread before us when we stopped at the top of a hill in front of a set of high gates. Quinta Isabella was written in scrolled letters atop them.

  Espirito dismounted; I missed his body for that moment before he reached his hands towards me and lightly swung me down. Setting Cristiano down as well, he left Adão with a boy who ran out of the gates and led the horse inside. And then the three of us walked down into Funchal, down, down, and farther down into the town, through teeming, narrow streets, passing the busy plaza where oxen and carts stood in a row.

  “This is the Kipling’s winery, with the Counting House here, at the front,” Espirito said when we stood on Rua São Batista, a street that ran all the way down towards the sea. “Behind is a courtyard with the working buildings and storage for the wines, also accessible from another lane where the mosto is brought in from the countryside. Olívia and I live here, above the Counting House.”

  I looked up at a handsome row of three balconies with finely carved ironwork.

  Espirito unlocked a dark polished door with a brass handle. In the entry was a gleaming wooden staircase rising to landings on two floors. The ceiling was adorned with decorative plasterwork. “We’re fortunate to have a ship-viewing tower,” he said. “Many buildings in the centre of Funchal were constructed to be able to see the harbour.” We climbed up the wide, spotless stairs to the second floor.

  A round-faced girl in a head scarf and apron was dusting a table as we came in. I smelled cooking meat, and suddenly was hungry.

  “Hello, Ana,” Espirito said, but she didn’t answer, staring at me, and then Cristiano, and back to me.

  At our voices, Olívia appeared. Like Ana, she looked at me and Cristiano, and then at Espirito. I tensed at the anger apparent on her face, but before she spoke, another woman came to stand beside her. I knew it was Olívia’s mother, for she looked like an older, softer version of Olívia.

  “You’ve returned, finally,” the older woman said. “Olívia was worried you wouldn’t be back for Easter, Espirito. And this …” She still smiled, although I could tell she was struggling to maintain her pleasant expression. “This is Bonifacio’s wife, then.”

  “Allow me to introduce my mother-in-law,” Espirito said, “Senhora Luzia Vasques da Silva. And yes, this is Diamantina. Bonifacio will arrive later—he wanted to go to Mass.”

  “Good day, senhora,” I said.

  “Olívia spoke of you,” Senhora da Silva said, “although she didn’t tell me you would be coming with Espirito.” She had regained her composure, and her smile was now determined. “I remember Cristiano, although he looks much different from that first time I saw him.” She nodded. “Do you remember me, Cristiano?”

  He nodded shyly.

  “Well, it’s a good thing we had Ana prepare a big dinner,” Senhora da Silva said, turning to her daughter. “Isn’t it, Olívia?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Olívia said, with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.

  “And tomorrow we can all go to the Easter Mass. Take your guests upstairs and let them freshen up for dinner,” Senhora da Silva said firmly to her daughter.

  “Thank you, senhora,” I said, not looking at Olívia.

  Olívia turned. “This way,” she said, and I took my bundled shawl from Espirito, and Cristiano and I followed Olívia up another set of stairs. Her breath rasped with each step. In the wide upstairs hall we passed a room with a deep copper tub sitting in front of a small fireplace.

  I looked at it, imagining myself sinking under warm water. The last time I’d felt water cover my body had been the night before my wedding, when I bathed in the ocean. The stream behind the house in Curral das Freiras ran shallow and cold, only reaching my calves.

  “The lavatory,” Olívia said, gesturing at a closed door.

  I raised my eyebrows at Cristiano at the wonder of it. I’d only known wash houses and latrinas separate from living areas.

  “You can stay here tonight,” she said, leading us into a bright, airy room. There was one wide bed. The curtains and bed covering were the green of the forest. A carved wooden screen blocked one corner. “Cristiano can sleep on that small settee.”

  I tried to imagine what would happen when Bonifacio arrived. I didn’t want to think of us being forced into the bed together, and looked at the flowers in vases on the dressing table and chest of drawers. Directly in front of us was a long mirror on a stand.

  I stared at myself, Olívia beside me. I had never seen my whole body; I only had my small bone-edged mirror. My shoulders looked strong, my hips narrow. There were brambles caught in my coarse brown skirt, a smear of dirt on the cuff of my sleeve, and dark earth stains on my hide boots. My hair was windblown, long blond strands hanging loose around my face. My cheeks were darkened and slightly chaffed by the mountain wind, and my hands red from work. Apart from the colour of my hair and eyes, I looked like my mother, long ago when she had walked the beach with long, firm steps.

  Olívia’s dress was soft gold muslin, her feet small in their matching satin slippers. Her hair was pulled back, sleek and shining. She folded her smooth hands in front of her waist as she stared at her reflection.
/>
  I turned from the mirror and went to the window. It looked over the harbour, with its gathering of sailing vessels. Beyond was the beautiful, restless sea.

  Hearing Olívia’s slow, careful exhalation, I turned back to her. The bones of her face were too prominent, her dark eyes glittering. “So you talked him into bringing you, in spite of my wishes,” she said, her voice hard.

  “Espirito suggested Bonifacio apply for the position in Kipling’s Counting House.” My tone matched hers.

  “The Counting House? He wants Bonifacio to work for Kipling’s? But that means you’d have to live in Funchal?”

  “Of course.”

  At her aggrieved expression, I stepped closer and said, “Do you not wish the best for your brother-in-law? Or is it me you don’t wish to be near?”

  She looked at me for a long moment. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  She turned and went to the door. “We will not wait on Bonifacio. Come downstairs when you’ve changed for dinner,” she said, and then left Cristiano and me alone in the beautiful room.

  I turned back to the window. The sight of the water brought me a deep sense of comfort, and I was able to breathe deeply as I hadn’t been able to do while choked by the mountains.

  Espirito said a brief prayer of thanks as we sat down at the long, gleaming table set with candles in high silver holders. Senhora da Silva and Espirito spoke, trying to bring Olívia and me into the conversation, but I only answered in the most cursory way. Even Cristiano didn’t make a sound as he ate. I knew he felt as out of place as I did in this grand house.

  “Bonifacio should have been here an hour ago,” Espirito said as we sat in the salon after dinner. Outside the windows, the sky grew dark. Senhor da Silva had come to fetch Olívia’s mother but had waited for her downstairs, so I hadn’t met him. Cristiano was asleep beside me on the settee, his head on an embroidered pillow.

  Espirito kept glancing at the wood and glass clock ticking on the mantel in the salon. Now its hands pointed at the seven and the eight. Of course, I knew about clocks, but I had never lived with one. I had lived by the movement of the sun across the sky, by the ringing of church bells, and by the needs of the body for food and sleep.

  “I’m afraid something has happened to him on the road. I’ll go and look for him,” he said at last. “Ana, please fetch me a lantern.” He leaned down and kissed Olívia’s cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t wait up.”

  Espirito left, and I turned to Olívia. I was determined not to let her silence and accusing stares provoke me. I realized she reminded me of some of the girls in the square in Vila Baleira, the ones who had pointed at me and whispered.

  “Was the doctor able to help you?” I asked.

  “A bit,” she said, still staring at the fire.

  As the silence stretched, I stood. “I’ll go to bed,” I said. “Thank you for dinner.”

  She nodded, staring at the fire.

  I roused Cristiano so that he could climb the stairs, then settled him under a blanket on the small settee at the foot of the bed. He was instantly asleep again. In the next moment I heard the rumble of men’s voices from downstairs.

  I went to the hall and watched as Espirito helped Bonifacio up the stairs. Bonifacio was clinging to Espirito’s arm and emitting a groan as he lifted his foot to each step. His face was pasty and his hair stuck to his forehead.

  “What happened?” I asked as they passed me. “Where did you find him?”

  “I’ve sent Ana for the physician,” Espirito said. “Go to bed. We’ll look after him.” They went into another bedroom and the door closed. Olívia was slowly coming up the stairs.

  “Do you know—” I started, but she just shook her head and went into her bedroom.

  I sat on my bed, and after a while heard more footsteps on the stairs. A youngish man, led by Ana, passed my open door.

  Ana went back downstairs. After a long while Espirito and the man I assumed was the physician passed my door again. I waited a few moments and then went to the salon. Espirito was alone.

  “Espirito?”

  As he turned from the table holding the wine decanter, his glass trembled slightly, and a few drops sloshed over the lip of it. He raised the glass to his mouth and swallowed it in one long drink, then turned and poured himself another. “I found him by the side of the road not too far outside Funchal.” He drained the glass again. “He couldn’t go any farther. I hired a cart to carry him back.”

  “Is it because of the fasting?”

  He hesitated a moment too long. “He’s been through an ordeal. The doctor will come back tomorrow to see that he’s comfortable. I’m exhausted. You must be as well. Please. Go to bed.”

  “But—”

  “Diamantina, please.” He put his hand to his forehead, his fingers still trembling. “I’m sorry. I just … I need to sleep.” Then he left.

  I went to the table and poured myself a small glass of wine and drank it, looking at the dying fire. There had been something terribly troubling in Espirito’s expression.

  I extinguished the lamp on the table and went up the dark stairs. I spent a long time at the window, watching the long, wavy reflection of the moon rippling on the water, thinking about Olívia, and her expression as she said, You don’t know, do you?

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Bonifacio’s door was closed when Cristiano and I passed it the next morning.

  Espirito and Olívia were sitting at the dining table.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Were you waiting for us?”

  “As soon as we’ve eaten, we’ll all go to Easter Mass,” Olívia said. “We will meet my parents at the church. We were going to have dinner with them, but now …”

  “We’ll have them here instead,” Espirito said. “I don’t feel right leaving Bonifacio on his own for so long.”

  Olívia shook her head. “The day is spoiled now.” As Cristiano and I sat down, she picked up a small bell and rang it. In a moment Ana struggled in with a heavy tray of covered dishes.

  I knocked on Bonifacio’s door when we returned from church, and at his low murmur went in. He was sitting on a chair near the window.

  “Are you feeling better?” I asked him, and he looked away from the window, and at me.

  He was still pale, but seemed a little stronger. “Yes.”

  “The English physician was able to help in some way?” I wondered what the physician could have done; there was no cure for the ravages of fasting but to slowly introduce food.

  He stood cautiously. “Did you want something in particular?”

  “Just to see that you were all right. After last night, I—”

  “You insisted on coming to Funchal. And so I have.”

  “I’m sorry you weren’t well enough to attend the Easter Mass. We went to Sé cathedral. It was beautiful.” I was speaking too quickly, uncomfortable with Bonifacio in a different way than usual. He stared at me with an intensity that was unsettling.

  “I’ve been there. A long time ago.”

  I nodded, and left.

  When Senhor and Senhora da Silva arrived for dinner, Espirito and Olívia and Cristiano and I were in the salon.

  Senhor Eduardo da Silva was a portly man with a neat moustache, his silver hair showing the tooth marks of a comb. He bowed over my hand, greeting me formally.

  When Olívia and her mother went into the kitchen to confer with Ana and the da Silvas’ maid, who had come to help cook and serve that evening, Bonifacio appeared. He went to Senhor da Silva; the other man stood and they shook hands. Bonifacio then went and sat on one of the elegant salon chairs.

  “Dinner will be ready momentarily,” Olívia said, coming back into the salon. When she saw Bonifacio, she stopped.

  Bonifacio half stood, bowing his head. “Olívia,” he said. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “You’re quite welcome,” she said, more than the usual edge in her voice. “Please. Everyone come t
o the dining room.”

  We were served the first course. Cristiano sat beside me, and I saw him studying the confusing number of utensils. I waited until I saw Senhora da Silva pick up the outside fork, and then did the same. Cristiano copied me.

  “First thing tomorrow we’ll go to the Counting House, Bonifacio,” Espirito said. “You can meet with the men who already work there. You may have questions for them.”

  Bonifacio didn’t respond, but Senhora da Silva kept the conversation going, chattering about the weather, the latest new shop in the square, people they knew, and how she was redecorating her salon. Various courses were served, and I watched Senhora da Silva carefully. I followed her lead, not wanting to appear uncouth, although I quickly realized only Cristiano paid me any heed; everyone seemed ill at ease.

  I took Cristiano upstairs to bed as soon as it was polite to do so. When I came downstairs again, Senhora da Silva and Olívia sat in the salon. “The men have gone outside to walk. Eduardo likes to have his pipe after dinner, and the smoke bothers Olívia.” She rose and went to her daughter. “You must go to bed now,” she told her. “It’s been a long day.”

  Olívia rose silently.

  “That’s my good girl,” her mother said. “Would you like me to send Ana up with a warm drink?”

  “No, thank you, Mother. Good night, Diamantina.”

  I said good night.

  After she was gone, Senhora da Silva settled herself by the fire again, and shook her head, gazing at the flames. “I worry so about her. She’s my only child.”

  “Has she had the illness all her life?”

  “It started when she was a little older than Cristiano, but it was mild. It steadily grows worse. The English physician says that the chronic inflammation of the airways creates the coughing spasms. She …” She looked away from the fire, and at me. “She wasn’t always as you see her.”

  I waited.

  “She was full of life before the grip of the illness and Bonifacio leaving her. And I must say that Bonifacio looks terrible.”